A Honey 'Verse Great Game
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: You all know the drill. The Great Game with a Honey 'Verse twist. As always lemme know what you think of it.
1. Prologue

**A Honey 'Verse Great Game**

**Prologue**

He hated visiting prisons. Especially foreign ones. They were always so dank and dark and depressing. He smiled a bit to himself at his own alliteration but quickly composed his face back to smoothness when the guard turned to look at him.

He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be at home with his John. But he had promised John that he'd go see this inmate that was asking for his help. He hadn't wanted too but when John got that look in his eyes he knew better than to argue. Still, John was going to pay for forcing this indignity upon him.

He let his mind plan and categorize all the different ways to have his revenge on his husband as he was led through the security. The guard on the right was in the middle of a messy divorce, two children and a dog. The other one was meeting his almost girlfriend after work for drinks and hopefully more though the guard was nearly positive it wouldn't happen. He was probably right.

They waved him through the door to the visiting area with bored expressions. Another guard met him and led him down the hall to a large room with tables and steel chairs. She looked him over appraisingly and then seemed to shake off any attraction. Low self-esteem, thought she was larger than she actually was, a string of bad relationship and the only company she had was a…zinnia that was dying from lack of attention. He refused to feel any pity for her though. Self-help books were a dime a dozen and any of those would help her far more than his assessments would.

He silently took a seat at one of the tables and waited for the accused to be brought to him. He was rather entertained at the inventive images his mind was supplying for his revenge on his John. It was only too bad that John liked chocolate sauce on anything but his sheets.

Sherlock glanced up when the door opened again and then scowled down at the table. Guilty. Boring. Dull. What he wouldn't give for something, anything, to make him think. He was going insane with nothing to do but think us new ways to make John squirm and scream in ecstasy or irritation.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Bewick asked hesitantly as he sat across from Sherlock. He was clean-shaven and clean but there was a look in his eyes that told his story. He wasn't remorseful at all. He was proud of what he'd done and simply didn't think he'd be caught. More fool him. Sherlock didn't help the guilty get off of the charges they brought on themselves. "You are Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and his scowl deepened. "Obviously," he drawled, who else would he possibly be? He waved a hand negligently towards the man. "Just tell me what happened from the beginning," he instructed in a curt tone.

Mr. Bewick wrapped his hands around each other and nodded slowly. He seemed to gather himself and drew in a breath to start his story. "We'd been to a bar," he said slowly and Sherlock kept his huff of exasperation to himself. He was already bored and the man had barely said ten words. John was going to be paying for this for years. "Nice place," Bewick commented. "And I got chatting with one of the waitresses," on purpose to make his girlfriend jealous no doubt, Sherlock surmised. "And Karen weren't happy with that," wasn't, Sherlock corrected in his head. Bewick gave a helpless shrug. "So when we get back to the hotel, we end up having a bit of a ding-dong, don't we?" Pride laced his voice for anyone that would care to notice. He'd engineered an argument so that he could kill his girlfriend and move on to someone new.

Sherlock let out a bored sigh and watched his breath cloud in the chilly air. Bewick glared and Sherlock simply stared at him in an effort to force him to move things along. He wanted to go home already. Belarus was even more boring than London at the moment. Mostly because John hadn't come with him but even if John had been here he'd still be bored nearly out of his mind.

Bewick finally relented and continued with his narrative. "She was always getting at me, sayin' I weren't a real man." The frown showed how insulted he was with that insult to his manhood.

Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. Enough was enough already. He was already bored beyond belief he shouldn't have to put up with the absolutely travesty of Bewick execrable grammar. What was wrong with the schools these days? Grammar was easy especially when speaking. "Wasn't a real man," he corrected the man aloud.

Confusion clouded Bewick expression and alleviated a bit of the boredom pounding on Sherlock's brain. "What?" He asked belligerently wondering if this skinny, alien-looking man on the other side of the table was insulting him too.

"It's not 'weren't', it's 'wasn't'," Sherlock explained in a bland tone. Grammar lesson over for the moment. Hope you learned something, he thought to himself though he held out little hope for that. Bewick was a mean, ignorant little man that thought the whole world owed him something.

Bewick's head nodded in a gesture of understanding but his eyes gained a coldness that would have made Sherlock feel a bit edgy if the other man weren't handcuffed. A part of his mind reminded him that he hadn't brought along his admirable shield. Should Bewick get loose John wasn't there to protect him. "Oh."

The two men shared a long stare. Then Sherlock's extremely limited patience gave out. "Go on," he encouraged if only to get this over with so that he could go home.

Bewick smirked as though he won something and Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes at the other man. Bewick wetted his lips with his tongue and gave a shake of his head. "Well, then I don't know how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands." A touch too much pleasure in the telling, so completely unremorseful for taking the life of a woman he'd claimed to love. "You know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives." Bewick leaned forward, earnestness painting his expression. Callouses on his fingers told the truth of that statement. "He learned us how to cut up a beast." His eyes shined in the dim light, pleasure suffusing them.

"Taught," Sherlock interrupted before he could censor himself. Though the confusion and growing anger in the other man's face was amusing. Still…there was that niggling feeling that he was baiting a lion without the tamer around to stop it from attacking. He really should have found a way to make John come with him.

"What?" Bewick snapped furiously.

"Taught you how to cut up a beast," Sherlock explained in his coldest tones. Obviously Bewick hadn't paid attention in school.

Bewick drew in a deep breath in an effort to center himself and put on a mask of amiability. Sherlock wasn't fooled in the least. "Yeah, well, then I done it."

"Did it," Sherlock corrected again, unable to stop himself. John was always on him about his impetuousness. Maybe he should listen sometime.

"Did it!" Bewick shouted and slammed a hand on the table. "Stabbed her over and over and over," he struck the table again every time he said 'over'. "And I looked down and she weren't…" Sherlock sighed and Bewick glared. "Wasn't moving no more," Sherlock stared at the ceiling in a vain attempt to call up his patience. "Any more," Bewick ground out. Bewick folded his hands together again and stared down at them. "God help me," he said softly. "I don't know how it happened, but it was an accident, I swear." He finally looked like the regretful lover he claimed to be but again it wasn't fooling Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, bit back a disappointed groan and uncrossed his legs in preparation to stand. Bewick's eyes widened. Sherlock put his palms flat on the table and stood up, pushing his chair backwards with a screech of metal on concrete. He refused to allow this man to know that he was even a little bit concerned about his ability to break out of those chains.

"Hey!" Bewick called after him as Sherlock walked away. "You've gotta help me, Mr. Holmes." Shrelock paused but kept his back to Bewick. "Everyone says you're the best." Oh he was but there was nothing he could or would do to help Bewick. He didn't assist the guilty he only found the truth and the truth was that Bewick had murdered his girlfriend. "Without you, I'll get hung for this."

Sherlock turned halfway around and smirked at the other man, looking just as pleased as if he'd found the crown jewels in his pocket. "No, no, no, Mr. Bewick, not at all." Sherlock's smirk widened. "Hanged, yes." Sherlock turned away and walked from the room. A futile trip but at least John couldn't yell at him for not going and John would be fine with him not taking the case once he knew the details. On top of that…there was revenge to be handed out. That would keep the boredom at bay for a few hours anyway. They would both enjoy the revenge. They always did.


	2. Bored!

**Disclaimer: Okay so I forgot to put this up on the first chapter…er, prologue, whatever. Sue me. Seriously. The only thing I have of any worth is my children. I'd say you could have 'em but that's kinda illegal. So…anyway…Sherlock and Co. are not mine no matter how much I wish for them. Some wishes aren't meant to come true and this is probably a good thing that it won't. Sherlock and my son in the same room? Not a good combo if I'd like to stay living in my house. My son is a mad scientist and Sherlock would only encourage him. So yeah. They aren't mine and they never will be.**

**_A/N: _****I know John and Sherlock are both being extremely unreasonable and irrational for this chapter but John's actually had a very bad day and Sherlock's moodiness isn't helping. Don't worry it'll work out.**

**Chapter One: Bored!**

John, glad to finally be home, instinctively ducked his head at the sound of the gunshots coming from his flat. He straightened up after a moment with one hand clutching at the knob. After his heart had slowed to a more normal pace he rolled his eyes in exasperation. Great. Sherlock was bored. Again. Damn. Well at least the bounder was home safe, he thought. Made killing him so much easier. He shook his head at himself. He'd missed the brat while he'd been gone and now that he was back his first thought was of various ways to murder him and hide the body. Didn't say much about his state of mind. On the other hand…bored Sherlock was not his husband. Bored Sherlock was a demon that would occasionally possess his husband and leave destruction and misery in its wake.

He stared at the knob in his hand for a long moment before sighing and pushing the door open. It had already been a long and trying day and now it looked to get even longer. Still there was no avoiding it. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't be too far gone yet. _Wishful thinking, my lad_, he told himself even as he headed for the stairs.

Sherlock heard the front door slam and smiled a bit, John was home. Finally. John's new job with Mycroft's handpicked clinic was getting in the way again. Sherlock scowled at the thought of Mycroft's getting John a job. John didn't need a job. He needed John home with him. John made everything entertaining. And if John was here then John wasn't off getting kidnapped or shot or tortured. John safe was good. John out of his sight was bad. It was that simple.

Hearing John's footsteps finally pounding up the stairs Sherlock leveled the gun at the smiley face on the wall with his eyes closed. He was going to have a very good afternoon. John in a strop was always fun. He pulled the trigger. And again. And again. Adjusting his aim slightly more away from the door with each pull. It wouldn't do to shoot John on accident after all and besides that damn smiley face was mocking him. One more pull and John should start shouting at him…just…about…now.

"Sherlock!" Right on time. John always had been a punctual child and it seemed he was even as an adult. Not to mention predictable. "What the HELL are you doing?" He was using that I am calm voice that only served to irritate Sherlock usually. Right now he was glad to hear it as that voice meant that John was just as up for a fight and the subsequent making up with hot, dirty, angry sex. Hopefully against the wall...or the couch. Either would do.

Sherlock stared at the air in front of him, determined to get what he wanted. "Bored," he told his husband in a quiet, monotone voice. It was a struggle to keep the anticipation from his tone but he thought he managed admirably when he caught John's reaction from the corner of his eye.

John drew in a deep breath at the answer he had more than half expected. A part of him was jumping in anticipation but the rest of him was just so tired and unhappy after the events at the clinic that he just wanted to cuddle on the couch and make Sherlock hold him until the sorrow went away. But Sherlock was looking for entertainment. Or a good fight. Though in Sherlock's world that was entertainment too. "What?" He finally asked in a fake confused tone. He hoped the other man would look at him soon. If Sherlock would simply cast a glance in his direction then he would see the state John was sure he was in and he'd switch gears and become the 'must care for John' mother hen that John actually kind of needed tonight.

The dark haired Sherlock straightened a bit in his armchair, turned his head and opened his eyes to gaze at the wall behind his husband. "Bored!" He said a bit louder. He jumped to his feet and waved the gun around. Knowing John would come and take it from his hands. John did not approve of using a gun like a toy. Neither did Sherlock really but he knew exactly what he was doing and John knew he was an excellent shot. Not as good as John but enough to keep from shooting something he hadn't intended to.

Knowing exactly what Sherlock was about to do, John covered his ears. "No!" He attempted to stop Sherlock even knowing that it was futile. Sherlock was in a mood and there was little John could do to alleviate it until the younger man calmed down. He took an aborted step towards Sherlock and ducked involuntarily.

Sherlock shot the wall again, he knew John was creeping up on his off side but ignored his husband…supposedly. "Bored!" He put the hand holding the gun behind his back and twisted a bit to shoot again, that was going to get him the reaction he really wanted. "Bored!" John rushed over when Sherlock's arm came back around and pulled the gun from his hand. Sherlock nearly pouted. John was supposed to tackle him. "I don't know what's got into the criminal classes," Sherlock complained, attempting to provoke John into a more amenable reaction to his petulance.

John stepped away from Sherlock, emptied the remaining bullets from the gun onto his desk and rolled his eyes. "Vacation," he suggested though he doubted Sherlock heard or cared if he had. Sherlock was in a mood and John wasn't sure he had the reserves to deal with it tonight. He was tired, hungry and just wanted a bit of a cuddle. He knew he wasn't going to get it though and that only made him feel even worse.

Sherlock strolled over to inspect the holes in the smiley face. "Good job I'm not one of them," he commented, lightly. Why wasn't John getting with the program? Sherlock avoided looking at his husband as he didn't want to deduce his husband right now. Besides John knew him well enough to throw him off on his deductions.

John sighed. He was tired and the rain had his leg and shoulder acting up again. And to top it all off one of Mycroft's spies had come in injured beyond saving. John had done everything he could but it hadn't helped any. He'd been able to hear the woman's sister screaming for her even as he'd left the building two hours after he'd failed to save the woman. He didn't know if he could handle one of Sherlock's moods today. "So you take it out on the wall?" He asked mildly. _Look at me, Sherlock,_ he begged in his mind knowing it would only take one cursory glance for Sherlock to switch tacks.

Sherlock flopped down on the sofa under the smiley face, one arm thrown over his face as though to block out the world. Joh normally would have snickered at his dramatics but Sherlock heard only silence from his husband. "The wall had it coming," he muttered in an undertone wondering why John was still silent. John wasn't reacting at all how he should or how he normally did. The taste of revenge was starting to sour on his tongue but he wasn't going to give up.

John rubbed at his temple, a headache had formed on the way home and it had only worsened through the conversation with Sherlock, and stalked into the kitchen. "I'm sure it did," he murmured, studied the chaos of beakers, test tubes, and unknown substances on the table and sighed. "Anything to eat? I'm starving." He tried to keep his voce level but wasn't sure he managed it.

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound and waited impatiently for John to open the fridge. He scowled when there was no yelp of shock even though he'd clearly heard the door open.

"Sherlock?" John called. The only hint of strain in his voice was a slight raise in octave. Damn him for being so unflappable. He'd usually give at least a token yelp just to appease Sherlock's dramatic nature. "Why is there a heading staring at me from our refrigerator?" He was almost too calm. Sherlock blinked and lifted his arm an inch to look over to John. Damn. John was in the kitchen and he couldn't see him from this angle.

"He's dead, John, obviously," Sherlock scoffed even as he tried to maneuver himself into a position to be able to see his husband. "He cannot possibly be looking at you. It's your imagination."

"Right, of course," John murmured as he softly, carefully shut the door on the head with the unsettling eyes that did stare at him no matter what Sherlock said. He wanted to rage and shout and rant and scream and throw a temper tantrum but his name was not Sherlock Holmes and he was far too mature to do something that childish…maybe later. It would only make his headache worse right now. "But what's it doing in our refrigerator? You know where we normally keep food." He paused as a thought struck him and shot a horrified look into the parlor. "You're not planning on cooking his brains or something, are you, Sherlock? Because if you are then I'm calling Mycroft and we're staging an intervention." He crossed to the doorway and leaned a shoulder against the jamb so that he could watch his husband's reaction. He knew the mention of Mycroft and an intervention would get to his husband.

Sherlock glared at him ignoring all the signs of John's state of mind in his irritation. "Don't be idiotic," he sneered. "It's an experiment on salvia coagulation after death." Really John should know better than to allude, even obliquely, to his past history as a junkie. What was wrong with the other man today?

"I see," John said slowly and then crossed the room to stand beside the dark haired man. He reined in his temper and realized that Sherlock really was angry now and he had no idea why. "I really am starving," he offered the information in a soft tone. "And there's no food in the flat. Wanna go to Angelo's with me?" He needed to get out of the flat and he needed his Sherlock.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and glared even harder at the ceiling than he had at John. "Not hungry," he said irritably. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. He knew the thought was about John but he was so bored and irritated it wouldn't become a truly cohesive thought.

John squeezed onto the sofa beside Sherlock's feet and rubbed at his aching leg. "Want me to order in a Chinese?" He offered in the hopes of Sherlock calming down some. The last time he'd ordered in a Chinese they'd had a very good evening in the living room and the kitchen and the bathroom and for a little while on the stairs before they'd finally made it to the bedroom. The bathroom had been added to the list again when they discovered they were both covered with duck sauce and that Sherlock had sweet and sour in his hair. It had been a rather good evening.

Sherlock uncrossed his arms with a petulant glare and covered his face with his hands. "I said I'm not hungry, you idiot! Are you deaf as well as crippled?" The fact that his tone was muffled by his hands took away none of the sting of his words or the meaning John took to be behind them.

John shoved Sherlock's feet away, stood up with a jerk and glared back at his petulant husband. "Well I am hungry, you arrogant berk." He stalked across the room and grabbed up his jacket. He thrust his arms into it and strode for the door. He would not deal with this today. Sherlock was a complete bastard at times and while John normally redirected Sherlock's moods easily he just didn't have the energy to do it now. Why couldn't Sherlock just once act the loving husband? He could at least pretend that he cared occasionally.

Sherlock pulled his hands from his face and stared at John's retreating back in utter astonishment. "Wait! Where are you going?" He called after him. John rarely walked away in the middle of an argument. He only did that when Sherlock had crossed the line unforgivably. And Sherlock hadn't…oh…damn.

"Out," John snarled back at him without turning to see the remorse on Sherlock's face and walked out the door.

**SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW**

Sherlock scowled and flopped back on the sofa. The ache in his chest was ignored as a matter of course. John would come back and they'd make up. They always did. But…damn. What in the Hell had happened?

He hated truly fighting with John, mock fighting was fun, true arguments were rare and all the more wounding for it. But his brain was rotting. There was no stimulation and now John was truly angry with him there wouldn't be any. John had taken all chance of entertainment away with him. Why couldn't John just once think of Sherlock first? He always had to put himself and everyone else before Sherlock himself. It wasn't fair. He didn't want to think about that.

He forced his mind onto a new track. What was wrong with the criminal classes? Actually, he considered that for a moment, why had the police suddenly had an upswing of intelligence? He then dismissed that thought very quickly. The police hadn't had an injection of intelligence. That was a preposterous notion. And it wouldn't bode well for his continued career.

His head lifted a bit at the knock on the open door. Even though he knew it couldn't possibly be his John. John had just walked out and he wouldn't knock anyway, not even in the mood he'd been in. Knocking was for people who weren't sure if they'd be allowed in. Still his traitorous heart pounded just a bit in hope that John had seen his remorse and had come back to finish the argument and move on to the making up. "Whoo whoo," Mrs. Hudson cooed in what sounded like an effort to be comforting but only grated on Sherlock's taut nerves. Sherlock dropped his head down and ignored her as much as he could, he didn't want the old woman. He wanted his John. "Have you two had a little domestic?" She asked softly.

Sherlock groaned loudly and climbed off of the sofa. He didn't look over to Mrs. Hudson. He didn't want to talk about it. Especially not with his landlady come housekeeper. She'd just take John's side anyway. He crossed his arms over his chest and stalked to the window. He really hated fighting with John and he wasn't even sure what they had been fighting about. He knew he was being difficult but usually John bore it all in his stride. What was wrong with John today? Maybe he should have looked at him when he'd first come in. Then he'd know.

Mrs. Hudson set the bags of groceries that John had asked her to purchase that morning in her hands on the kitchen table and glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock's sulking form. She kept her sigh inside and gave a dramatic shudder that she knew Sherlock would see even if he wasn't actually looking at her. Her boys were so high-strung sometimes. "Oooh, it's a bit nippy out there," she observed in an idle tone. "He should have wrapped himself up a bit more." Honestly, they were grown men, John should know better…though maybe his anger would keep him warm.

Sherlock just snorted in derision at her comment. He wasn't going to let her guilt trip him. He used one finger to push the curtain aside and watched John disappear down the street. He'd shoved his hands in his pockets. John had forgotten his gloves again. His fingers must be freezing.

No, he told himself fiercely even as his brow creased in concern. He wasn't going to get sucked into worrying about his husband. John was a grown man and could take care of himself. Besides, John had walked out of his own free will. If his hands froze then it was his own fault. Sherlock had other things to obsess over. He forced his mind away from the dwindling form of his husband's hunched figure and onto another track altogether.

"Look at that, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said lowly in an effort to put aside his anxiety over the argument with John. "Quiet. Calm. Peaceful." He uttered the words as though they were curses. He drew in a breath and let it out in a despondent sigh. "Isn't it hateful?" And it was all the Universe's fault he'd fought with John anyway. If the criminals would just do something then he wouldn't be bored and he wouldn't have antagonized his husband so severely.

Mrs. Hudson turned her back to him so that he wouldn't see her fond smile. She was sure he knew it was there but as long as he couldn't see it he'd let her get away with her affection. "I'm sure something will turn up, Sherlock," she tried to comfort him and looked over her shoulder at the forlorn form by the window. Such dramatics, she snickered to herself absolutely positive they'd have it worked out by morning. "A nice murder, that'll cheer you up." She put the receipt for the groceries she'd bought them on the table, gathered her purse and walked out of the kitchen towards the door. There was nothing perishable except for the milk she'd already put in the refrigerator making no comment on the man's head staring out at her. It wasn't like she'd never found even more disturbing items in there before. So long as they kept the body parts away from her flat she wasn't going to quibble about them.

Sherlock sighed again both at her lack of reaction to the head and her words. "Can't come too soon," he muttered. Hopefully, a good murder would put his brain to use and then he wouldn't fight with John because he was bored. Really it wasn't his fault John was in a mood and the universe refused to give him something to do.

Mrs. Hudson stifled a chuckle; Sherlock was rather amusing when he was upset and bored. Patience had never been one of Sherlock's virtues. She headed out the door and stopped suddenly as she caught sight of the wall. "Hey," she exclaimed in a severe tone. "What have you done to my bloody wall?" She didn't normally curse but this was beyond the pale really.

Sherlock slowly turned to regard the bullet ridden smiley face and couldn't stop the half smile that crossed his lips. The face should have known better than to mock him. Stupid wall had it coming. And she should be grateful he hadn't decided that the window was making him shoot it.

Mrs. Hudson saw the smile and scowled at him fiercely. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man," she informed him in a tight voice. "Not John's, mind you, yours." She bustled off down the stairs muttering imprecations against bored geniuses with no impulse control the whole way.

Sherlock ignored her muttering and grinned at the face. A moment later he sighed and scowled at the empty street below him. Now he was even more bored. He really wished John had stayed. Even if they fought. He should probably text him and apologize. Even if he didn't know what he was apologizing for. He knew if he actually thought about it he'd know exactly what he'd done wrong but…John usually just let him get away with a quick 'I'm sorry' and they went on about life as though nothing had happened.

He took a step towards the table where his phone lay to do just that very thing. John would come back and he'd actually say the words for once. Then they could get on with the make-up sex and he wouldn't be so very bored. He'd only taken two steps more when he suddenly found himself face down on the parlor floor with no knowledge of how he'd come to be there. Heat and glass rained down over his back and he curled himself up in a ball in an effort to mitigate any damage. What the Hell was going on, was the last coherent thought he had before blackness swallowed him.


	3. Aftermath

**Aftermath**

John shivered in his jacket and curled his fingers together inside his pockets. He was cold, his shoulder was aching again and his thigh felt like it was on fire. Ten hours straight standing over a dead man and then the walk home and the argument with Sherlock and now the bloody cold. Maybe he should have slept at the clinic.

He hadn't planned his desertion of the flat and his husband all that well but he'd had to get out of there. He had needed to get away from Sherlock before he said or did something he'd regret later. Much later. And wasn't that just a sad commentary on his life today?

He wandered down the street feeling the eyes on his back and ignoring them. Sherlock was watching him and he wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing exactly how much he wished he were home right now. The wanker. Head down, depression and anger heavy on his shoulders he walked on.

He hadn't gone an entire block away before he started to regret fighting with Sherlock. It made him angry for another half a block and then he gave in. He hated fighting with Sherlock. He wasn't even sure why he had become so upset with his husband. It was stupid. Sherlock had always been Sherlock and he'd known that from the beginning. Sherlock got bored and when he got bored he got destructive or mean or horny. Usually John just rolled with whichever bored mood Sherlock was in. Tonight though he just…couldn't deal with it. And he'd wanted Sherlock to have one of his rare fits of empathy and just…do something, anything to make John forget about his terrible day. It was an insane wish. Sherlock's empathy was as rare as a blue moon and never when John needed it most.

John's shoulders slumped dispiritedly as he continued to walk away. He would need to apologize soon. But he couldn't just yet. He should probably just text Sherlock and find out if he wanted John to pick up anything for him. He was going to anyway but it would be nice to give Sherlock the illusion of choice. He was hungry and he was determined that Sherlock eat too. They weren't on a case and Sherlock needed to eat. He probably hadn't eaten the entire time he was gone.

John fumbled in his pockets for his phone with a grimace. He could never remember exactly which pocket he put the damned thing in. He stared down at the device and frowned as he threaded his way through the crowd on the sidewalks with instinctive grace. This wasn't going to be pretty, he knew. Sherlock had probably moved from destructive and mean to just mean by now. And Sherlock in mean mode was Hell on Earth even when John wasn't already strung tight.

Shaking his head at himself and his bloody husband too, he clicked open the folder for text messages on his phone and then came to an abrupt stop as something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. John turned his head to the side to get a better look and sighed heavily. Knowing that it was better to just get this over with he put his phone back in his pocket and stepped over to the black car sitting on the side of the road. The door opened even as he reached out for it. "Good evening, John," Mycroft's voice floated out to him from the shadowed depths.

Resigned to the inevitable however reluctantly John bent down and gazed into the interior of the car. "Hello Mycroft," he returned though he could only make out the older man's outline in the darkened interior. "Are you following me?" He smirked knowing the truth. Of course Mycroft was following him.

Mycroft let out a chuckle and shook his head. He could play this game. "Sherlock's delusions are rubbing off on you," he commented wryly, knowing that John wouldn't buy that. John merely raised one eyebrow and smirked at the older man. Mycroft sighed, giving up the game, he did have important business to attend to. "Only for the last block or so, John." He tapped the brolly in his hands on the floorboard contemplating exactly how to get John to do what was needed. "Come in, John," he ordered. "We'll take you home." He knew he could just ask and John would help him convince Sherlock with a minimum of fuss but…he was also a Holmes and knew he would talk around the problem until John gave in and did what was needed without Mycroft himself ever having to ask for help.

John sighed and nearly declined the offer and the implied need in Mycroft's actions. Mycroft needed a favor and he needed John to get Sherlock to agree. However he wasn't sure he was cooled off enough to deal with Sherlock again so soon. He'd never denied Mycroft before though. Not on something as important as it seemed this was. Mycroft wouldn't have followed him if it wasn't something important. With visions of the whining and shouting he was sure was in his future he finally climbed into the car and took the seat facing Mycroft. "He's in a mood, My," John told him baldly not willing to play word games when he was this tired and depressed and unsettled. "He's not going to be happy to see you…probably not me either." He tacked on the last bit in a low, bitter voice that he couldn't seem to stop.

Mycroft clucked his tongue in something that could have been disapproval but whether it was for John's self-proclaimed cowardice or Sherlock's childishness John couldn't tell. "Well then I suppose that it's a good thing I brought peace offerings." He gestured to the package on the seat beside John. "Curry and a case." He smiled slightly as he tracked John's eyes to the bag that had the scent of curry curling into the air.

John eyed the paper bag with longing. He really was hungry and he and Sherlock both enjoyed curry, though he liked his considerably spicier than Sherlock. Knowing Mycroft there was something in that bag to tempt both of them. Knowing it was useless to protest he still shook his head and turned his attention back to Mycroft. "That's providing he'll take either of them," he pointed out fatalistically. Sherlock had been known to spite himself in such a fashion before. Especially when he was bored and mean.

"You know he will," scoffed Mycroft with a gentle roll of his eyes. "Eventually," he amended. "After he does his requisite pouting, whining and yelling about idiots."

The car shook violently as John opened his mouth to agree. The two men exchanged startled looks and then John scrambled for the door handle. He had to know what was happening. And if there was anything he could do to help. London wasn't known for its earthquakes though he supposed it wasn't impossible. "What the Hell?" He voiced even as his fingers clambered for the handle.

Mycroft quickly grabbed his arm and hauled him back from the door before his fingers couldn't connect with the handle. "Don't be stupid, John," he scolded in that tone that was the unique purview of older brother's everywhere. "We don't know what's happening." He kept one hand on John to keep him in place and used the brolly to open the partition between the seats. "Bryce! What's the situation?" He asked his driver in a curt tone that hid nothing of his determination to protect John from rushing out into the street and demanded instant information and compliance.

The driver turned his head and stared at them with wide, shocked eyes. He blinked once at the two men and then finally pulled himself together and answered Mycroft. "Looks like the building across from 221 Baker St. exploded," he said slowly. He continued to blink absently as he tried to process the suddenness of the explosion.

John and Mycroft both paled dramatically at that explanation. "Sherlock," they breathed out together and scrambled for the door handle nearly braining each other in their haste to exit the vehicle and get to the genius that they both loved.

**_A/N: While rewriting this I thought about ending the chapter here and making you all wait for the next one. But I decided that would be cruel…and too much work. So carry on._**

**SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW**

"Sherlock!" John and Mycroft yelled together as they raced through the front door. Neither of them paid any attention to the dust in the air or the sound of sirens in the distance. Nothing mattered except getting to Sherlock.

There was no answer to their calls. Only the sirens and the shouts of the crowd outside. "Sherlock," John yelled again knowing that his husband was perfectly capable of ignoring them and hoping that was the case.

"John!" Mrs. Hudson's frightened voice caused him to jerk to a stop at the foot of the stairs and look over to her open door. Mycroft touched his elbow and then continued up the stairs at a fast pace. "What's happened?" Mrs. Hudson continued and John was sure if she'd even registered Mycroft's presence. "There's a fire outside. Are you alright?" She asked without pausing to take a breath or let him answer. Her hands reached in front of her body and towards him as though she wanted to pat him down and check for injuries.

John's doctor instincts kicked in over the panic that he allowed to retreat to the back of his mind and he stepped towards her. "There was an explosion across the street," he explained as he took her wrist between his fingers to check her pulse. "Are you injured, Mrs. Hudson?" He asked her even though he was fairly sure she was only shaken up and not actually injured.

"No dear," Mrs. Hudson patted his arm comfortingly and let him study her eyes for glassiness or whatever it was doctors looked for. "Well," she paused and thought for a moment. It was best to give John all the information she could. Otherwise he'd worry. "My ears are ringing and my windows are all gone but I'm fine," she assured him with another pat to his shoulder. "Where's Sherlock?" She shifted the conversation with something she knew he'd latch onto.

"John!" Mycroft's cry from the flat at the top of the stairs interrupted any thought John might have had of answering her. There was a note of panic to it that John didn't think he'd heard in years. He didn't like that tone.

Giving no thought to how rude he was acting John dropped Mrs. Hudson's wrist without another word, spun on his heel and bolted for the stairs. That cry could only mean that Sherlock was hurt. And badly.

**SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW**

John pounded up the stairs, dashed through the open door, skidded into the parlour and slid to Sherlock's side. He quickly knelt next to the fallen man. His panicked eyes met Mycroft's. "Injuries," he barked out as the doctor once again overtook the husband.

Mycroft responded to the voice as well as any nurse or intern ever had. "None that I can see," he said quickly. "Though I haven't moved him and he's unconscious." He knew John would need all the information he had even though it wasn't much.

John nodded with a distracted air and gently felt along Sherlock's back to check for fractures or damage of any kind. "His back feels fine," he said softly as he double checked a few spots that would have taken the brunt of the explosion.

"My back is fine," Sherlock suddenly grumbled and shifted under John's exploring fingers. "It's my bloody head that's pounding," he shoved himself up on his elbows and then flipped over to his back and blinked up at the ceiling. "What happened?" He finally asked in a tone that was irritated as much as it was confused.

John stared down at him for a moment, relief and concern mixing while he simply took a breath and let it out. He waved Mycroft to silence when the older man seemed set to explain what had happened. "What do you remember?" He countered in an even voice.

Sherlock glared at him and rolled his eyes, John was so utterly predictable sometimes. He didn't have a concussion. Still, that tone meant John expected an honest answer and he wouldn't stop until he got it. "Watching you walk out, talking with Mrs. Hudson and then…" he frowned in sudden and fearful bewilderment. "I don't know." He admitted a tinge of anxiousness coloring his tone. Maybe he really was injured, or maybe he'd been drugged but…he winced at the pain in his head and left that line of questioning until John looked less worried.

John frowned back seriously and then carefully lifted Sherlock's head and gently ran his fingers through the hair at the back. "You've a bit of a bump," he said softly and checked Sherlock's eyes. "And a headache but I don't think you're actually concussed."

Sherlock glared at him again, the argument coming back to him in its entirety. John shouldn't have walked away. He should have stayed. Suddenly Sherlock was irrationally angry with his husband. He knew it was idiotic but he couldn't stop himself. This was all John's fault. "How do you know whether I have a headache or not? And this is your fault." He waved a hand at the destruction around them and pushed John's hands away. He squirmed away from John and continued to glare menacingly at the shorter man.

John sat back on his heels and stared at him in astonishment. Where had that idea come from?" "How on Earth is somebody bombing Speedy's or a gas line blowing or whatever happened my fault?" He matched Sherlock's glare with one of his own and ignored the slight snicker Mycroft couldn't contain.

Sherlock huffed irritably, reached out shakily and used Mycroft's shoulder to leverage himself to a standing position. He looked down on John and continued to frown. "It wouldn't have happened if you'd been here." He said simply, knowing that for all its absurd irrationality that statement was almost completely true. "Nothing bad happens when you're here." He paused and tilted his head a bit in consideration. "Well, at least, not to me. You always jump in front of any danger so…if you had been here then it wouldn't have happened." He gave a slight nod in emphasis.

John blinked and shook his head . "Sure, Sherlock. Whatever you say."

Sherlock beamed at him and then turned his head to glare at his brother. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

Mycroft blinked at him and then rose to his feet. "Making sure you didn't get your great big brain splattered all over the parlour," he responded with a smirk.

Sherlock scowled at his older brother. "I'm fine," he insisted. "So you may go now. Find a cake or something."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and dusted off one of the chairs before taking a seat. "I have come to speak with you, little brother," he said in a regal tone.

Sherlock slumped down in a chair, glared at him and scooped up his violin, checking it for damage. "No you came to beg for my assistance. And to feed my husband. I'm not helping you Mycroft."

"Sherlock," John said softly. "You've been bored. Where's the harm in at least hearing him out? Besides…he brought curry."

Sherlock's glare switched to his husband but them he huffed irritably and plucked the strings of the violin violently. "Fine," he scowled at Mycroft. "But I'm not helping you."

Mycroft settled back in his seat. "Very well," he nodded. "John, go and retrieve the curry, would you?"

John nodded and clattered down the stairs. "Is he all right?" Mrs. Hudson asked him in a trembling voice as he came to an abrupt stop at the bottom.

John nodded and drew in a shuddering breath. "I worry about him all the time," he muttered. "He never gives a single thought to whether or not a criminal has a gun or a knife and he races over the rooftops at blinding speeds. But I never..."

Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder. "I know dear," she soothed him. "Do you know what happened?"

John shook his head and then a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sure we'll soon be invaded by a dozen coppers, though. Soon as Greg and the rest hear what's happened. And Ian."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "And there isn't any electricity. However will they have their tea?"

John was startled by his own bark of laughter. "Don't fret," he advised her and trekked for the door again. "Mycroft's here so I'll just send his driver out for supplies."

Mrs. Hudson laughed too. "Very well, John," she agreed. "I'll wait here for DI Lestrade and the others and then I think I'll go spend the night with Victoria." She sighed and looked around at the mess in the foyer. "We'll figure out what to do about this tomorrow."

John eyed the mess as he pulled the front door open. "Mmm," he hummed in something like agreement.

The air in the street was still filled with dust and smoke from the building across the way. John shook his head at the gawkers loitering near their door. "John," Bryce's voice came from his right and John turned his head. Bryce stood a few feet from him, his arm loaded down with bags from the Thai restaurant he and Sherlock both favored. "Alice is on her way with tea for the coppers," Bryce continued. "And Mr. Ian's coffee."

John chuckled and shook his head before taking the bags from Bryce. "I fear we're becoming far too predictable," he said.

Bryce grinned at him. "Hard not to be with those of us as has known ye since you were jes a little mite."

John shrugged and headed back for the door. "Thanks Bryce," he called over his shoulder as he mounted the steps and opened the door. Now he just had to convince Sherlock to eat and to take Mycroft's case. At least his husband wasn't bored anymore.


	4. An Explanation

**An Explanation**

"John!" Sherlock's voice pierced the air around John. He'd taken the food from Bryce only moments ago and had taken a minute to simply stand on the steps with the door open trying to remember how to breathe. His heart had only just started to return to a normal rate.

A large part of his brain was telling him that he should really be used to this kind of thing. He'd been in several different war zones after all. Things exploding around him wasn't anything new to his psyche. Even when they'd been children Sherlock had often caused explosions, usually without any kind of warning at all. Granted none of them had quite been on the scale of damaged buildings or the bombings in the Middle East. Though Sherlock had destroyed a room or two in the manor.

And Sherlock had never been near the bombings or the war zones. He glanced across the street at the blown out building and fought off a shudder or fear and repulsion. He wondered what had caused the explosion and told his brain to shut up about the bombings. This couldn't have been a bomb. There was no strategic advantage to blowing up that particular building. Though he had a sneaking suspicion that this wasn't any ordinary gas explosion. This was something deliberate though he wasn't sure what the bomber had been trying to accomplish.

Unless they were trying to scare Sherlock off of something…which was as absurd as it would be useless. Sherlock didn't give in to scare tactics. Ever. This couldn't have anything to do with his husband. John shook his head at himself and let out a rude sound. What had Sherlock managed to get them into this time?

"John! What's taking you so long?" Sherlock's voice demanded his attention even as the thought of someone trying to kill his husband sent a shaft of white hot rage through John. No one was going to get near Sherlock. Not while he was breathing.

John took one more deep breath, ignoring the smoke that invaded the air, in an effort to bank the sudden fires of fury. Fury without a target would burn him out before he had the chance to enact his revenge. "Coming!" He yelled back in an almost normal tone. Sherlock and Mycroft might be able to detect the rage still simmering but he doubted anyone else would.

He tightened his grip on the bags of food and stepped back into 221 Baker St. He pushed his fury to simmer in the background of his mind. If this had been deliberate on the part of one of Sherlock's enemies then they would soon learn the wrath of a quiet man. He wouldn't stand for anyone injuring or attempting to injure what was his.

**SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW**

John could feel the tension between the brothers as he entered the flat. Sherlock was still in a mood and he was not going to be at all cooperative. Dammit. He ignored them both and set the food on the table in the kitchen beside Sherlock's beakers and test tubes. Normally not a safe place but he'd cleaned them out only the day before while Sherlock had been gone. "Bryce is going for tea," he announced.

"Splendid," Mycroft said in an overly cheerful voice. He had appropriated John's chair and was staring doggedly at Sherlock.

John sighed to himself. Sherlock was being irritating again. As always. John felt a bit of his irritation at his husband resurface. Sometimes the man could be an utter brat.

"Obvious," Sherlock sneered and cradled his violin close to his chest. "Tea doesn't solve everything, John. It's not going to fix the windows for instance." He glared at his husband and then turned his attention to his violin. At least John had put the precious instrument away while he'd been gone. He knew there was a reason he'd kept John around all these years and it wasn't just the sex either.

John shook his head and dished up some of the curry Mycroft had brought them. Sherlock could bloody well fend for himself. He was angry with Sherlock and besides Sherlock was a grown man. He didn't need John to wait on him hand and foot. "I had no idea," he snarked back to his husband.

Sherlock blinked at him vacantly as he lowered himself onto a chair at the kitchen table with a plate of steaming curry and rice. Then Sherlock's face hardened in a cross between anger and envy. He was well aware of John's little games and he wasn't giving in this time. Though that curry smelled divine. Still…John was being stubborn and irritating.

"Sherlock," Mycroft diverted his attention with a knowing smirk and a stern tone. He did so enjoy these little spats between his younger brothers. They were always amusing. The best part was that he knew as well as nearly every one of their acquaintance that John would win. He nearly always did even if Sherlock thought it was always his idea.

"I can't," Sherlock said firmly and plucked at his violin absently. It needed a good tuning after the explosion. Thankfully it had been in its case and not lying about as he was prone to leave it sometimes when he'd been bored. Maybe he was being too hard on John after all.

"Can't?" Mycroft asked with an interested look. He knew very well that Sherlock was bored. He hadn't even needed John to tell him. Simply seeing John striding down the street with his shoulders hunched against the cold wind had alerted him to his brother's antics.

Sherlock shrugged and plucked at the strings again. Still not quite right. "The stuff I've got on is just too big," he outright lied. "I can't spare the time."

John rolled his eyes and addressed himself to the curry so that if Sherlock glanced at him he wouldn't be able to tell how amusing John found their little dance. He figured Sherlock and Mycroft both knew anyway but he wasn't about to be blatant about it. They'd never stop teasing him if he was.

"This is of national importance," Mycroft dangled the carrot for his brother. Sherlock liked interesting cases and this one was sure to be challenging. He watched the flash of interest in Sherlock's gray eyes and mentally smiled smugly. He'd been right. Not that he'd expected anything less.

"How's Molly?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject so that he could buy a little time and think about this case of Mycroft's. They all knew he was going to take it in the end but he wasn't going to make it easy for his brother. Besides, Mycroft was hiding something. "Big as a house, I expect. Due to pop soon isn't she?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and aborted the automatic reach for his wallet and the ultrasound pictures it contained. Sherlock and John had already seen them. Molly always e-mailed them copies as soon as they returned home from her appointments. "She's fine, Sherlock. Thank you for asking."

"Have the two of you decided on a name yet?" John asked interested. Mycroft and Molly had been going back and forth for months over their daughter's name. Neither of them could agree on anything. "You've been discussing it for months now."

Mycroft smiled happily at him. "We have," he answered relieved that that was one battle over the baby that was finally over and done with, even if he wasn't enthused with the name. "She will be Beatrice Alva Holmes."

Sherlock let out a snort of laughter at the choice. "Poor, poor child," he laughed and picked up his bow after setting his violin safely in his lap. "Forever known as Bah. You should really think that name through a bit more, Myc." He scooped up the rosin and checked the hairs on the bow for damage.

Mycroft sighed and shook his head at his brother. "Molly chose it and I'm not going to try and convince her otherwise, Sherlock. You try it and see what happens." He stabbed his ever present brolly at his brother's leg with a teasing smile. Everyone knew Molly's moods were unpredictable. She was just as likely to fly into a rage and throw things at Sherlock as she was to cry uncontrollably or simply nod and pick a new name.

Sherlock shuddered in an exaggerated way. He'd already been the recipient of Molly's temper more than once and had no wish to be so again. "No, thank you." He plucked at the strings again and nodded in satisfaction. The violin was perfectly tuned now. He should probably compose a lullaby for his niece of the dreadful name. Why did all Holmes' born seem to have the most appalling names?

"Will you take the case?" Mycroft asked in a civil tone bringing the conversation back around to the reason he'd trekked all the way across London to see his brothers.

"No," Sherlock denied him again in a curt tone. He'd promised himself he wouldn't make this easy for his brother.

"Yes," John answered at the same time, tired of the game and wanting only to get his dinner finished and go to bed.

Sherlock scowled at him. "I'm too busy, John." He noted the lines of fatigue around John's eyes and mouth and cursed himself, John and his brother. John was always so tetchy when he was exhausted. Damn Mycroft's stupid clinic anyway. And damn John's sense of independence. And damn his own spoiled childishness.

Mycroft shook his head and stood from the armchair he'd appropriated. He'd seen Sherlock's glance towards John and the following flash of irritation and self-loathing in Sherlock's eyes. It was time to get home to his wife and leave his brothers to sort things out. "Missing plans on a memory stick for a missile defense," he told John and crossed to stand at the archway between parlor and kitchen. "One of our agents, a man name West…Westie to his few friends, was found dead on the train tracks with his head bashed in this morning. It's all in the file." He held the file out to John.

John accepted the thin file and flipped through it. "Suicide?" He asked already knowing Mycroft suspected otherwise. He wouldn't be so worried if it was a simple suicide.

"So it would appear," Mycroft answered vaguely and tapped the brolly on the floor with a click, click sound that would have others frowning in annoyance.

"Murdered for the plans," John muttered and nodded to himself. That would irk Mycroft especially as the plans were top secret. "Only copy?" He asked and nodded again at Mycroft's shake of the head. "Top secret? Never mind. Of course they are. Otherwise you wouldn't be here asking for our help. And you need this kept quiet."

Mycroft's lips creased in a smile. It was always so refreshing when John let his intelligence show. "Quite," he agreed. "Thank you gentlemen," he tapped his brolly one more time on the floor in what John knew was a kind of nervous gesture and headed for the door.

"Give Mols our best," John called after him intending to go see his friend in a day or two. Mycroft was far more nervous than a normal expectant father. There was something more going on and he would find out what it was.

"You'll go tomorrow," Sherlock instructed in a firm tone. His eyes were fixed on the door that Mycroft had disappeared through but John wasn't surprised that his husband had seemed to read his mind. Sherlock was good at that.

John nodded in affirmation and then glared at his husband with fire in his hazel eyes. "Go get your food and stop lying to your brother," he ordered. "Lestrade and Ian will be here soon and you know it."

Sherlock sighed, stood, snatched the file from John's hand and headed for the kitchen. "Fine."


End file.
